How deliciously ironic to find myself five years down the line in spaghetti straps and a cohabiting partnership.
Still, I can’t shake off the all-consuming religious influence of growing up in the Homeland. I’ve worked out most of my issues with my lifestyle, but now and then I do wonder.
I am pretty sure these days that God has other things to do than make a note of my wardrobe indiscretions and I do believe that we are buddies in some way. But living in Greece, which is 98% Greek Orthodox, I feel a little bit out at sea sometimes. Sometimes I need reminding that God the way I know Him is out there somewhere, thinking of me.
That’s why each time I cut open a tomato I look to see if God’s name is in there. I did this at first after reading a news story years ago about a woman who found God’s name written in a tomato (and then cooked that tomato in a curry – so practical, so Asian).
But lately I’ve been paying closer attention and making strategic cuts. I don’t discriminate. I even check to see if Mary or Jesus have decided to make an appearance in my vegetables. Someone up there must be thinking of me, right?
I am 95% over my religion-induced guilt over my lifestyle. But that 5% still bothers me, like not having called a very good friend for years and years. The time will come when I will have to admit that if I am looking for God, I am certainly not going to find Him in a tomato.